Bravery
by Le Masque31
Summary: "'It hurts so much,' Harry whispered—a secret carved into his sinews; shame boiling in his blood, searing the inside of his flesh." Harry has been rescued from his abusive relatives by none other than the Dark Lord, but echoes of his ordeal still haunt him. Rated for graphic self-harm and rape. Slight HP/LV slash, but it does not have to be read that way. One-shot.


**A/N:** I have never been able to reconcile my impression of abused!Harry with canon!Harry, and I apologize for any resultant OOC behavior.

**Warnings:** self-harm; rape; abuse.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

"It hurts so much," Harry whispered—a secret carved into his sinews; shame boiling in his blood, searing the inside of his flesh. _I should've stopped him. I should've fought back. _He sniffled, raising a hand—the hand that was not in the Dark Lord's grasp—to rub and poke at his eyes until redness settled, like a Glamor, over the pale, tear-streaked skin just beneath.

"I know," Voldemort soothed softly, thumb trailing over the boy's inner wrist, caressing the delicate veins there. He slid Harry's arm further along in his lap, letting his wand hover over the newly exposed gashes on the child's forearm. Minute tremors careened through his fingers, and he tightened his grip on the yew wand; paused, shifting it in his hand. The cuts were deep and savage, flesh and muscle ripped open, flaps of skin hanging like flabby, dumb lips around gaping wells of blood. The Dark Lord closed his eyes, feeling something cold and heavy constricting his chest.

"I'm sorry!" Harry blurted out, expecting punishment. "I shouldn't have … I'm sorry!" He was almost panting, but not quite. Voldemort could feel the fear, the struggle not to recoil from his touch, in the child's fast, heavy exhales; he could see his heart throwing itself against the frail ribs in a frenzied bid to escape when the boy himself would not.

"Hush, child," the Dark Lord murmured, the words foreign and unwieldy in his mouth. "I am not angry. And even if I were," he added, even as Harry, having been animated solely by the tension in his limbs, sagged against his pillows, "I would not punish you. I will never punish you, Harry. Do you understand that?"

And, _oh_, how could he ever punish the boy? Voldemort knew Harry to be sixteen, and yet he looked so much like a child—a precious, vulnerable child—when he lay curled up like that, restless, shaking fingers smearing fresh tears across his blotchy face.

(Shock hit the Dark Lord like a physical blow to the stomach. He stood rooted to the spot beside the open door, insides obliterated to frozen mush. Harry was sitting on the bed, head bent low over his left forearm and the knife in his other hand—the sharp, curved blade glistening, oh _God_, glistening with, no, _dripping _fresh blood.

And then the scene before him clicked in his brain. "Harry," he called in a low voice, not knowing what else to say, not knowing how to approach the boy; but he rushed to his side all the same.

The child dropped the knife; scooted further up the bed. Voldemort saw horror flare in those shadowed green eyes, saw the bloodless lips open in a gasp. He did not need Legilimency to know what the boy feared.

"It's all right, Harry," he said gently, although it was not all right, he had no idea how to make it all right, and damn those wretched Muggles to the deepest pit of hell! "It's all right." The boy was crying—he was always crying these days—and when the Dark Lord gripped him carefully about the shoulders and pulled him closer, a stream of _it's all right_ falling from the lipless mouth, he did not resist.

One spidery hand strayed into the boy's messy hair, while the other settled on his back and held him close. Blood and tears soaked into Voldemort's robes, but they languished at the edges of his awareness, picayune and thoroughly ignored; for the sobs racking the small body in his arms ripped like boulders through his very soul, tearing out a dwelling there, trapping him against the poor child; stunned into helpless silence. The ruptured fabric of his mind folded into an ineluctable thought, and he wondered how it had escaped his notice until now: the burden Harry bore was too great for anyone, let alone a sixteen-year-old boy.

"It will all get better, Harry," he heard himself whispering into the child's hair, but cold voices swelled in a chorus among his thoughts, hissing dire warnings, deeming him mad for wanting to believe in his own words. Anger flared in his chest—how dare those filthy Muggles hurt his precious Horcrux!—but the flame was doused with icy water almost instantly, and a strange sort of numbness stole over him. The child was so much more than just a Horcrux—and broken beyond repair.)

The yew wand seemed to dither for a moment over Harry's newly mended skin, and then it was withdrawn. His forearm was white once more, unmarked save for faint pink lines—the ghosts of the butchery—that would fade in a matter of hours. Even so, the boy felt shivery, his skin still prickling as though grazed with invisible needles.

The Dark Lord studied Harry's face; the child looked sullen, his expression dark and shuttered. There was a flicker of concern in the vast, empty cavern of his mind. "Harry?" he asked tentatively, feeling his footing waver. "Is anything the matter?"

Harry hated himself. _So weak … So pathetic … _And surely the Dark Lord must think so too. He had cried in the man's arms, for pity's sake! And right there, streaked across his expensive robes, blood—_his_ blood—glistened, as though mocking him with the life still thrumming through his veins, with his own existence.

He wanted to forget. He had picked up the knife in desperation, dug it from underneath the pile of clothes they had salvaged from 4 Privet Drive—sought the blade, glimmering as though with a smile, in his cache, in the place where he had buried his misery, his thoughts one lonely night after another.

But it hadn't worked; it never worked, not truly. Shame would boil over in rivulets of blood, the deluge making him feel clean, fresh; like the world after rain, his thoughts would clear, lost to the churning chasms of his mind, so, so distant from the high, airy vantage point near-unconsciousness offered. There would be nothing, nothing at all—he might be floating—but then the darkness would be dissipated by the light of dawn, and he would wake up in a pool of dried blood, sore and queasy.

Harry felt tears sting his eyes again. It wasn't fair! But then again he did not deserve happiness, did not deserve respite. He was a freak, a disgusting, good-for-nothing freak that leached the lives of others. And Voldemort made it hurt even more when he touched him like that, like he was precious, fragile, _wanted_. He wished the Dark Lord would go back to trying to kill him. This was not his—could never be his—and he would pay for it later, oh yes, he would pay most dearly, and Voldemort was lying, he sure was, and, _Merlin_, could the man just stop touching him like that!

"Please … Please, don't," Harry pleaded, dragging himself out of Voldemort's reach. He fidgeted, folding and unfolding the hands in his lap; his gaze flitted from the floor, to the mirror, to the door, then back to the floor—he did not want to look at the Dark Lord.

The older man sighed; this was going nowhere. He stretched out a hand—slowly, so as to give the boy time to draw away if he truly wished to avoid physical contact—and long, pale fingers wrapped around his chin, lifting it up gently, ever so gently, so that watery green eyes settled on crimson orbs.

A slight prod was all Voldemort needed; Harry's mind gave way, and the boy himself gasped at the intrusion, but made no attempt to pull away.

There was a bed, and there were threadbare sheets, stained red. The stench of blood billowed upward, pervading the room, clogging the air. Then the memory was torn by a scream; the clink of metal hitting the floor.

"Be quiet!" roared a whale-like man—Harry's uncle, the Dark Lord reminded himself—and the boy sprawled on the bed—Harry himself—keened as a fat, stubby thumb was shoved between his teeth, wrenching his jaw open. "This will teach you to shut up when I tell you to shut up, boy!" A pair of knickers, rolled up hastily into a thick wad, was pushed deep into his mouth, making him gag. He tried to jerk away, to spit it out, but then Uncle Vernon was fumbling with a roll of duct tape, and a strip was slapped onto his lips to keep the makeshift gag in place.

Harry whimpered between convulsive coughs, and strained against the rope binding his hands behind his back. He was naked, completely naked, pale skin stretched over jutting bones, marred by blue-black bruises and streams of blood. A word had been carved into his lower back, the letters choppy, hideously childish—FREAK. The wound was bleeding freely, crimson runnels almost concealing the red, raw appearance of the boy's buttocks; Voldemort knew he had been spanked.

The child tried to scream through the gag as Vernon gave him a hearty shove, propelling his body further up the bed; pawed at his hips, dragging his ass up into the air. Harry cried out again, struggling against the big hands holding him down, breathing harshly, loudly; he sounded like he could not draw enough air into his lungs. The memory darkened, tinged by dread; its edges blurred, its clarity dimmed. Harry was choking on the knickers in his mouth, wet fabric nudging against the back of his throat, snot and saliva weighing it down, but it was too big to slip further, too big to end it all.

Vernon pried his buttocks apart, and a glob of spit landed on his hole. Rough fingers rubbed it in; forced his anus open, and then carelessly withdrew. Flies were being undone, and Harry writhed and kicked and fought—but his uncle swatted at his temple and threw his enormous body over him, trapping him beneath wobbling mounds of flesh.

"Do you want me to punish you again, boy?" Vernon jeered in Harry's ear; his breath reeked of alcohol. "This is what freaks like you deserve." And he slammed his pelvis against the boy's, his cock forcing the tight flesh to yield.

Harry howled, a hoarse, drawn-out sound, tears seeping into the blood on the mattress. Vernon was thrusting into him, deep, violent thrusts that made a film of sweat cling to the man's pouchy features, that made Harry's body rock backwards and forwards; a raft at sea, caught in the battle between waves and wind—brittle and powerless.

Dark blood trickled down the back of the boy's thighs, but soon it was diluted to thick streaks of pink as Vernon came with an oath and pulled out of Harry, shoving at the boy as though he were nothing but a senseless animal, a toy to be trifled with. His footsteps were swallowed by Harry's pained groans as the man waddled over to the other side of the room to retrieve the blood-stained knife; he sliced through the rope coiled round the child's wrists, and left the room without another word, locking the door behind him.

The Dark Lord withdrew from Harry's mind. The boy regarded him with red-rimmed eyes—they seemed dulled, smudged to a dirty, moss-like green, set against ashen cheeks.

"I can't … can't forget," he stated with a lucidity infinitely more terrible than the hollow, forlorn tremor he had sported until now. "I try and try, but it doesn't go away. None of it does."

Voldemort read something of the boy's despair (_and the wild hope hope hope he did not dare believe_) in his eyes. "Harry, what those monsters did to you was wrong, utterly wrong." Those green eyes widened. "And I swear that no one will touch you again. They would be dead before they could lay one finger on you."

Could he believe? But that had never been his lot … He did not deserve … He stared at the Dark Lord, uncomprehending.

"Child," Voldemort began, a sigh in his voice, "you are precious to me. You are my very soul. I swore to protect you, and I will keep my word. Lord Voldemort does not offer promises lightly." Fingers caressed the side of the boy's face. "Do you believe me?"

Harry raised a hand; settled hesitant fingers on the other man's wrist, not to bat his fingers away, but simply to feel him there; feel his pulse, his skin—convince himself that it was real.

The man had not been anything but kind to him ever since he had found out about the Horcrux. Could he dare … ? Maybe it would all be taken away from him in a dream. Or perhaps this was the dream, and he would wake up to being beaten and starved and raped again. He wondered if it truly mattered.

There was no deceit prowling in those crimson eyes. Was the concern he sometimes thought he saw there real, or a mere figment of his imagination? He could not tell. But the pulse racing beneath his fingertips felt real enough, and so did the warm breath ghosting across his face like a long-forgotten caress, remembered in sweet slumber; he thought that was how his mother's touches had felt like in his waking reveries.

Voldemort's gaze sought out his own. For the first time, he found himself thinking that the color was beautiful; not at all like blood, like everybody said, but garnet wine flecked with black, deepening around the cat-like pupils. A vague memory formed in his mind, a memory of the homely red of Gryffindor House, and he remembered that Gryffindors had always been known for their bravery.

Harry nodded his head.


End file.
